Afterward
by fang1
Summary: Post Not Fade Away, Angel's persepective.


AN: Inspired by what Angel said in the last meeting, "Who are you kidding? We're not getting out of this alive." …or something along those lines. One-shot, Angel's perspective. Set immediately after the series finale.

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: I don't own 'em.

The angel came on the third day, or what should have been the third day, for the sun had not risen for many hours.

In the end, it was Angel who got both of them out of the fight, physically dragging Spike first by the shoulders and then the waist. Illyria had been dismembered on the second day, too proud and filled with raging grief to fight wisely. Wesley's body lay in the same position as it did when he first fell, under a collapsed roof. Gunn's body was decomposing under an upended bin.

"C'mon. Snap out of it." Angel resisted the urge to smack the half-conscious Spike across his battered face, then did it anyway.

He got a moan out of him. Angel sat back for a bit, and considered. He watched his breath move the blonde curls across the forehead of his childe, who was draped across the asphalt and on his lap. No amount of hair gel, thought Angel, could hold for that long. He raised a hand that had never intended to touch Spike's cheek and felt his own hair, matted with blood and filth. The hand stopped momentarily, feeling the pulse coursing at his temple.

Angel didn't remember when it happened. He recalled fighting for a long time, pausing once to splint a broken femur. His or Spike's, he couldn't tell. There was no _moment_, not like he had expected. During the fighting, he felt himself becoming weaker and inexplicably heavier. The force that pulled him towards the Earth loosened its grasp at every new challenge, allowing Angel to defeat it. But its pull grew stronger between every small victory.

Now Angel felt his blood pounding in his chest and head, a heavy beat. His body felt heavy, and he knew that it was not a reward, but a debt with only its interest repaid.

He shook Spike's form, willing it to reanimate. It was too light, a dry husk with all the liquids drained: sweat, blood…all the important stuff. He watched, amazed, as Spike's eyelids fluttered open and focused on him.

"I'm…what?" He muttered, and closed his eyes again. He needs to feed, Angel realized. He reached for a knife lying a few feet away and tested its sharpness against his own arm. It was the only injury he had now, Angel realized, shifting his weight and feeling no pain. Spike caught the scent of human blood and made a movement toward him, but did not get very far. He sunk back down and did not try again.

"You can feed from me later," Angel told him, unsure whether the vampire heard at all. "Sunrise is coming. I need to get you inside."

Then the angel came. Its light shone around them in a seven feet radius, and Angel saw a yellow strip on his right side and a yellow strip on his left side, interrupted by Spike's legs. They were in a parking lot. The angel made its way closer to them. Its feet were covered in soot and it tripped over the white robes and soiled them once it touched the ground.

"'M so tired," Spike murmured to no one in particular.

"I know," Angel answered him, surprised at the tone of compassion in his own voice. The angel cleared its throat.

It held out a glowing hand toward the prostrate creature on the ground, like seeking permission to offer medicine to an ailing man. "For rest." It added.

"Wait." Angel stalled. "Shouldn't I – " He gestured at the knife. "He needs to eat. Get his strength back."

The angel shook its head. "For rest." It assured.

Angel looked down and saw Spike's lips moving silently, in what he was sure was either an epic poem or a humble prayer. His thumb grazed across Spike's forehead of its own accord. He remembered what Spike had requested months ago, and he looked up at the angel and nodded.

The angel stretched its hand to Spike's neck, then across and around his body, its arm extending and twisting like silly putty. The space it touched glowed for a minute, then Spike's dust motes floated in the fading light. Angel did not know what happened in between, for he did not want to watch and kept his eyes focused on the knife, glinting in the power of the angel. At the last possible moment, his hand slammed down on where Spike's chest should have been, thinking ridiculously that he could somehow pin him in place. His hand reached the ground and Angel realized that he was sorry to see his childe gone. The angel blew through its mouth and closed its eyes for a moment as the dust dissipated.

But the angel was not done yet. It gazed at Angel and he was sure that it had smiled, though its face did not move. "Go to the one you love, for you are no longer a champion. Be happy and reproduce. Live." Angel did nothing and the angel urged him. "Go!"

He got up and started to walk away, then turned back to ask a question. It was gone. He grinned briefly and walked on.

He went to Buffy first and stayed with her for two days, informing her of recent events, excluding the Spike parts. It wasn't that Angel still thought there was a chance with her. It was just that he couldn't bear to see her hurt by news that he judged to be ultimately inconsequential. Andrew was surprisingly discreet about asking after his favorite peroxide blonde hero and took the news more calmly than Angel expected he would. But the boy was good at hiding things, Angel realized. Giles was training him well.

Giles was still wary of him; Willow as chipper as usual. Xander was nowhere to be seen. Angel felt genuine pity and revulsion when he heard about what had happened to his eye, when he found out from one of in-house Slayers. He hid his knowledge about it from Buffy and her friends, for he was ashamed at his initial reaction.

Upon finding out he was human, Buffy immediately told him that she was dating someone. He could not tell if her tone was apologetic, embarrassed, or happy. Trying to "move on with her life," as she called it. He tired of her childish assumptions and did not bother telling her about Nina, knowing it would only make her feel unjustifiably wronged.

He remembered how she had been sweet to him in high school while she never really understood him. She had taken their relationship so seriously and he had been crushed under her love, squashed into two dimensions so that he had to move to Los Angeles to learn how to laugh and cook breakfast again. If she heard about his cooking, he knew, she would feel hurt again. It wasn't that he ever refused. Equipment and supplies were easy to obtain but Buffy always came to him in the dead of night, when he was trying to read and think. She found something romantic in that, having a lover who was so special. A creature-of-the-night boyfriend who kept radically different hours. Any meal with her would have to be for ceremony, not sustenance.

_Cordelia set the daylight office hours and once demanded that for an entire month that he make the morning coffee. She liked her eggs sunny-side up, with little oil, no ketchup, salt and lots of pepper. She had a method of eating peppered things so that the dark spice would not speckle her front teeth…_

…Plus, the passion between him and Buffy had been so strong that it burned and petered out quickly, reduced to a few embers of affection. He would always love her, in a sense. But she was not the one.

He went to Nina to see that she was okay, told her to stay where she was, then left again with the intention to grieve. He went to a church but the tears and prayers would not come. Driving back to the hotel, he wondered how Spike could memorize all those lines of verse and not remember a single word of advice he said.

_"Don't eat the ones that are unwell."_

_"This soul…is the worst thing that's happened to me. You'd better hope you'll never get one."_

_"Stay away from Buffy."_

_"Go away, Spike."_

_"Spiiike! Don't try to get up here! Hit it on the back of its knees!"_

The last one he had screamed from the top of the dragon, his hands raw from the climb up and a few hairs singed from its hot breath. It had been a bad idea, the climb. Took him about ten minutes just to get back down, even after the thing was "felled." No fairy tale ever tells you about these things, Angel grumped. And of course, Spike managed to get himself stuck on the next dragon in an attempt to copy his Grand-Sire. Fortunately for him, it landed sideways as it was slain, and Spike was able to dismount without much difficulty nor help.

"Bloody daft." Angel muttered, affecting an accent he knew he'd never hear again. Remembering how Spike had been – how he'd _always _been – regardless of the soul and whatnot, he began to laugh.

The laughter turned into tears eventually, and he wept in the car in great, big, manly sobs for as much gratefulness for life as pain of loss. He stayed by the side of the road and wept for a long time.

There was no curse, no prophecies, no missions. Angel was free. And he would go back to Nina. And he hoped that the same angel would come for him, when his time came. It was then that he knew – someday soon, he would be happy.


End file.
